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By 
MARION B. BAXTER 



FEINTED BY 

LowMAN & Hanford Go. 
SEATTLE 



v- 



Copyright 1910 
Beatrice Baxter McCiiURE 



CCI.A278819 



M^ Moiifn 



Three decades ago, in the little town of Charlotte, 
Michigan, there came in answer to the sincere prayer 
of a noble, loving woman, a baby daughter. The 
mother of that little daughter was Marion Babcock 
Baxter, and I was the little girl. My earliest rec- 
ollections center about her marvelous mother-love, 
and her repeated assurance that I had come into the 
world because she so much wanted me. Can any 
memory of a mother surpass that tender knowledge? 

As I grew older, she took me with her on her long 
journeys, and I was always her welcome compan- 
ion. Very early I came to know that this mother 
of mine was no common woman. Often, I sat 
in crowded churches and lecture halls, on the front 
row, and saw this stately mother, with her beautiful 
hands and her voice like the tone of a silver bell, 
address hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of 
people, and knew, from the way in which people 
greeted her, she was one set apart, after a fashion, 
from the majority of her sex. 

Quite early, like all curious children, I begged for 
stories. "What did you do, mamma, when you were 
a little girl?" And in answer to my childish de- 
mands she would tell me of those days in Jonesville, 
which she always spoke of as ^'Samantha Allen's 
Jonesville," when she was a little girl living in pov- 
erty with her father and mother. She said that 



— Continued 

many a time when she went to visit her grandma in 
Litchfield, she carried her shoes over her shoulder, 
because "feet, you know, were cheaper than shoes." 
Then there was the time when the family ex- 
chequer permitted the purchase of a brilliant ''three- 
ply" carpet for the parlor. She never forgot how 
wonderful that carpet was. 

There was a what-not in that little parlor, and 
there, on one Christmas day, she put her only gift, a 
highly colored candy rooster. She could not sleep 
that night for wondering if the candy rooster would 
still be there in the morning. Every day she would 
steal into the room to fondle the bit of brightly 
painted sugar, and would allow herself only the 
privilege of sucking just a wee taste off the base. 
But one awful day a little boy named Joe slipped 
into the parlor unseen, and there he found the candy 
rooster and heartlessly devoured it. 

I remember she told me once how envious she 
was of all the girls whose parents could afford to 
buy them hoops and she could not have any. And 
so one day she sewed a barrel hoop into her own 
little skirts. All went well until she started down 
the aisle to her desk at school, and then, ''rattlety- 
bang" went the barrel hoop against the benches. 
The secret was out and derision was the penalty. 
Mother said she often used to climb trees to escape 



— Continued 

bad boys who persecuted her, because her father was 
an Advent minister, and they would often pursue her 
with jeering cries, '^'Oh, say, Mary Ann, when's your 
father goin' up?" It seems that when Mother was 
a little girl, her lonely childhood bore heavily upon 
her. She would often wander out along the country 
roads, particularly to one place where a great big 
rock formed a beautiful seat. There she would sit 
by the hour, listening to the dream voices that came 
to her, and in later life those dream voices never 
failed her. 

When about eighteen, she persuaded her father 
to give her one term of lessons on the melodeon. She 
had a natural gift for music and was never known 
to make an error in harmony. After the term of les- 
sons expired, she herself started out to teach, 
and one of the first things she did with her savings 
was to assume an indebtedness of her father's and 
pay it off. 

About that time my mother was famed for her 
wonderful lyric soprano voice, and was known 
throughout Michigan as the Nightingale of that 
state. She w^as the first singer ever remunerated 
for her services in the college at Hillsdale, Michigan. 
But after a few years, when she was twenty-one or 
two, she contracted a frightful cold, which ruined 



— Continued 

the singing qualities of her voice, and the village 
choir sang without her after that. 

When she was about twenty, she decided that it 
was ''in her" to lecture — that she had been ''called" 
to the platform. There were many who believed in 
her ability, so it was arranged that she should give 
her maiden address in the lecture hall at Jonesville. 
Considering her own state of near-poverty, the sub- 
ject of that address is remarkable. Possessing but 
one dress to her name, that was fit for public ap- 
pearance, she lectured upon "The Follies of 
Fashion." So great was her success, however, that 
it was not long before she became one of the best 
known platform speakers in Michigan and the 
United States and Canada. 

From then on her career was one of success, 
marked here and there by deep sorrows, which she 
bore bravely. Her work was done in intimate touch 
with the great leaders of the day, among them 
Frances E. Willard, Dr. Anna Shaw, DeWitt Tal- 
mage and John G. Woolley. In 1898 she came to 
Seattle, and during her sojourn here reached the 
hearts of thousands of people through her editorials 
in the "Daily Times," and later, ministered with 
kindest care to hundreds of destitute sick through 
the agency of the Wayside Emergency Hospital, 
which she founded. 



Continued 

And now, in closing, I, who have known her so 
well through all the years since I came to be her 
little girl, can say of her that always her purity of 
intention was without blemish, her generosity and 
kindness without limit, and that in nobility of mind 
and sweetness of spirit, she was one of the lofty 
ones of the earth. 

BEATRICE BAXTER McCLURE. 



Pn^ma 



miii Vmi 



Ah, me. 

How wild the wind is. 

And how Hke fiend incarnate. 
It raises bedlam on the moor! 

How it fumbles at the shutter! 

I can hear it scold and mutter. 
And now, 

A hand has pulled the latchstring 
On my door. 

And the wind 

Has all the seeming 

Of some living thing in pain. 

Plaint and tear, — plea and promise. 
Low and measureless refrain. 
As of soul in pennance awful. 
O'er some deed it dare not name. 

And now. 

With tramp of armies 

Great and strong, 
It thunders down the highway 

And wooded glens along. 
And the low cry of the fallen 

Sounds above the trumpet song. 



And now. 

With sudden gust and fury 

It blows across the moon. 
And a strange, uncanny blackness 

Filters through the room. 
While a thousand weird fancies 

Eye me in the gloom. 



— Continued 



Qit^t JpaBBing of a 9mtl 



I am down to the river at last, 
And all the pain and flurry 

And all the bliss of living 

Are past! 

Lying low 'mid the rushes, 
I hear unspeakable things. 

And see, above and around me, 
A flutter of snow white wings. 

I remember it all, — that dark night. 

The wind's mad dash on the moor. 
That face at my window. 

That loud, quick knock on my door. 
And the muffled toll. 

The measured toll. 
Of the village bell 

For my passing soul. 

I am drifting now. 

Safe wrapped in a mantle of rest. 
And one, sitting close by my side. 
Pillows me on her breast. 

And soothingly sings away my fears. 
As she did full oft 

In my childhood years. 



— Continued 



Oh, that great song. 
Oh, that great throng. 

All welcoming me! 
And fairest among the fair 

Is the man of Galilee. 

He holds my hand, and says, 

"Mine own!" 
He lifts me up to a place 

On His throne. 
And all the loved 

Of long ago 
I meet again and love 

And know. 



1895. 



SIIl^ Jprittr^ ilmp^rial 



(Written at the time Empress Eugenie's son, the Prince 
Imperial, was killed in the Zulu war.) 
Ring the bells 
And beat the drums. 
Let fly the flags 
And fire the guns, — 
And you, bell ringer. 
Up in the tower. 
Ring the bell slowly. 
Not proudly, but lowly; 
Let it's iron tongue tell 
With it's deep-toned knell. 
How France weeps in dust. 
This solemn hour. 

Salute him with solemn guns 
And let him pass — 
That the world may know 
That you honor the trust 
Bringing to you 
His sacred dust. 

Riderless cometh the charger 

With stately tread; 

Before him goeth the master dead. 

And the bell knells. 

While the Prince rideth on in his sleep, 

Lying so still 

'Neath the immortelles. 



— Continued 



Ashes to ashes. 

Dust to dust, 

Sculptured base 

And marble bust. 

Prayer of priest. 

And woman's trust, 

Will come, and go, and fade away. 

So sure as night swings into day. 

Make way! Make way! 

For the Prince. 

Lo ! he comes with serenest brow. 

None may mock or fear him now. 

Garlands of roses. 

Both white and red! 

On steps the charger! 

His master is dead. 



Mnin % &lfaiom 



Under the shadow, oh, my God, 

Must I walk on forever? 
And will my soul from out this gloom 

Be lifted never? 

Canst Thou not see how I have tried 
To be both strong and brave? 

Although the terrors that encompass me 
Seem cruel as the grave? 

If I could only see thy hand 

Leading on the way, 
Methinks I should more trustful grow. 

From day to day. 

I will believe, I must not doubt. 

Though now I cannot see 
Why all the way the shadows throw 

Such baleful lights on me. 

E'en now, I feel myself 

Braver and stronger grow; 
The way is dark. 

But Thou dost know. 
The how and why of all the things 

That fret my poor heart so. 



i^^art of iKttt^ 



Be patient, O heart of mine. 
Learning the lesson of trust. 

The stars may die, the heavens fall. 
But God is just. 

Be patient, and know that He 

Who holds the world by His will 
Will help thee to solve life's mystery 
And guide thee still. 

Some one is speaking to thee. 

Tenderly and low; 
My child, come and walk with me, 

I love thee so. 

Be patient, for God is good. 
And knoweth what is best. 

Finish thy work with willing hearts. 
Then go and rest. 



Written 1 880. 



S0 Not Sry 



Do not try to think or plan 
About thy future days. 

But rather in full confidence 
To God commit thy ways. 

Do not try to lift the veil 
That on to-morrow lies; 

Kind and loving is the hand 
That hides it from thine eyes. 

What though the road 
All dark and lonely be; 

What though the whole world raise 
A mocking voice at thee. 

Do those thine eyes keep steady; 

Thy face without a frown; 
As one who goeth to a destiny — 

That destiny a crown. 



Written 1890. 



(In Memory of My Mother, Mary Babcock.) 

Tolling, tolling, hear the bells toll; 
Over the bruised heart their iron notes roll; 
Tolling, tolling a march for the dead, 
A solemn march for our loved one dead. 
Going away to a land unknown. 
While the sad bells with their monotone. 
Seem like a voice crying out in its woe. 
Dead, dead, dead, and we loved her so. 

Tolling, tolling, hear the bells say 

Life is a shadow fleeting away. 

Life is a ripple that plays on the stream. 

The tint of a rose 'mid the sunset's gleam, 

And hearts must break while the great bells toll, 

Or ever the notes of eternity roll. 

Or ever the Angel writes on his scroll 

The weal or the woe of each passing soul. 

Written 1 880. 



tn 31 Am S^a& 



When I am dead. 

And on my breast 
They cross my tired 

Hands to rest; 
Let no one come 

And cry, and say 
How dark the world 

Since she has gone away. 

When I am dead 

Let some one bring 
A gift of flowers fair. 

And wide the casement open fling. 
That httle birds may come and sing 

And flaunt their plumage there. 

Above my head let no one preach 

His dogma or his creed. 
But rather from the Book of Books 

Some loving message read; 
And then, all peaceful lay me down. 

With grasses at my head and feet; 
With day and night to sentinel 

My slumbers sweet. 



m 31 Am i^ab 

— Continued 



For death, I hold. 

Is but a sail 
Across a tranquil deep; 

Whose north and south. 
And east and west 

Lies bounded by a sleep. 



Written 1896. 



©Iff TSimnn 



The evening sun was bending low. 

And the western hills were all in a glow 
When I heard a sound, from the far-away skies. 

Which chased the tears from my weeping eyes. 
And I saw straightway through the ether blue, 

A Golden Gate which open flew. 
Ah, the Vision ! the Vision ! was fair to see, 

'Twas white sails floating o'er a crystal sea. 

Away o*er the drifting, eddying deep 

Another sight my vision greets — 
A tiny craft on the foam-wreathed tide. 

With a loving Father for its guide. 
Half-closed eyes and silent feet. 

They're drifting along o'er that pathless deep. 
Ah, never a thought or never a care. 

Disturbs the peaceful sleeper there. 
The Vision ! The Vision ! was fair to me ! 

Those white sails floating o'er the crystal sea. 

Away o'er drifting, eddying deep. 

Another sight my vision greets. 
A Jasper gate, with gildings rare, 

A mystical Port to a City Fair. 
It opened wide as they nearer drew. 

And never closed till the bark swept through. 
Ah, the Vision ! The Vision was grand and great. 

As I saw them drifting through the Jasper gate. 



— Continued 



Roll on, ye years, in your ceaseless round. 

But hurt not the vision, nor forget the sound 
That I heard that night, when the sun bent low. 

And the sky was one beautiful golden glow. 
When the Angel lifted the wonderful screen. 

And I saw those borderlands of green, 
And the crystal river rolling between. 
Ah, the Vision! The Vision! was fair to see. 

No sorrow there for you or me. 

Written 1884. 



SIigm^H for % Sltttlf ®nfa 



About ®m0 aitttl? (BxtlB 



A sweet little girl 

With tangled curls. 
And fat, round face so jolly. 

Went out one day 
For romp and play 
With a neighbor she called Molly. 

TTiey played at "Mamma,** 
And "Come to See," 
And lived in glorious state; 

Made home so grand 

In the shining sand, 
And swung on the garden gate. 

And when the dark 

Came up in the sky. 
And the red went down in the west; 

Each girlie sweet 

Fell fast asleep 
In arms that loved her best. 

And dreamed and dreamed 

Of pretty flowers. 
And any number of things. 

And journeyed, oh! 

Ever and ever so far 
Afloat on butterfly wings! 



Ab0tit ©tu0 SittU (BxvIb 

— Continued 



And when the dark 

Went out of the sky 
And the red blazed up in the east. 

They met again 

'Neath the maple tree. 
And spread their morning feast. 

And brought their dollies. 

Great and small, 
All dressed in white and green ; 

And some they called 

By common names. 
But one they crowned a Queen. 

And so they laughed 

And sang and danced 

And spent the hours in play. 
But all the things 
They said and did, 

ril tell some other day. 



Ettllr lEmtly QIopp 



Miss Emily Copp 

Came down with a hop. 
Quite early in the morning. 

And on the stair 

Her Auntie fair 
She kissed without a warning. 

Miss Emily Copp 

Has a chest of drawers 
Where she keeps her pretty things; 

A chain of gold, 

A heart of gold. 
And numberless other things. 

And Emily Copp 

Is very rich. 
As a maiden ought to be. 

And neath the lid. 

Securely hid 
Are shining pennies three. 

Miss Emily Copp 

Has eyes of blue 
And cheeks like roses red. 

Two even rows of pearly teeth 
And a mischievous little head. 



iCtttU Emilg Qlnpp 

A Heal Hutu (girl 

— Continued 

Oh, Emily Copp! 

Dear Emily Copp! 
A prayer for you I'll pray. 

That angels sweet 

Your little feet 
May lovingly guide alway. 



Eb MnrkH Etimn 



Trot! Trot! Trot! 

To market-town! 
Two red shoes 

And a bright red gown. 
Posey on my hat. 
Penny in my hat. 

Buy me rich at market-town. 

Trot! Trot! Trot! 

To market town. 
There and back 

Before sun-down. 
Sugar and spice 
And all things nice. 

Bringing back from market town. 



SIIf0 Man an oinmhU S^tr^^t 



There was a man 
On Tumble Street, 

And very vain was he. 
He walked about 

On his two feet. 

The big world for to see. 

And one cold day 
On Tumble Street, 

When icy was the way. 
He fell and broke 

His great big nose. 

Is what the people say. 



p99H-Mt99g 



Little Piggy-wiggy, 
Tired of his pen, 

Squealed and squealed. 
And ran away, 

And then ran back again. 






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"Where'er we meet, you always say, What's the 
news?" 

Aside from the commonplace comments upon the 
weather, the first question one asks on meeting a 
friend is. What's the news ? One is inquired of about 
one's health, and the health of the family, about busi- 
ness — whether it is prosperous or not; whether the 
community is prosperous? News is solicited about 
the crops, about labor, about the financial situation, 
local and international, and if time permit, the con- 
versation may drift into international affairs — for 
daily papers bring the ends of the world to the 
fireside of hut or palace. 

We are constantly on the alert for something out 
of the ordinary, and news-gatherers go with great 
speed to learn the details of some new and startling 
transaction. If it be a safe robbery, they must not 
only tell the story, but, like Thomas of old, testify 
to having laid their hands upon the nail prints ! If 
it be a raid upon some disreputable house, care will 
be exercised in making public the name of every 
female and a corresponding solicitude in suppress- 
ing the name of every male. This is one of the 
hard things to account for and one of the many 
things that must be accepted. 

Column upon column of magazines and papers 
are given over to the discussion of the Balkan situ- 
ation; the impending crises in British affairs; the 



ffll^at'H III? NmB 

— Continued 

steady onward march of the White Bear, the per- 
sistent diplomatic victories of Germany and the 
independence of our own Uncle Sam, who is no 
longer spoken of as the little Benjamin among the 
tribes of nations. 

We go with infinite patience to find something to 
talk about, forgetting that with each day everything 
is new, that nothing can ever be as it has been, and 
that with each day everything in all the universe 
is new. 

What's the news? 

Well, first of all, this is a new day — spick, span, 
new — such a day as never was before! It slipped 
through the gates of opal without hitch or jar; it 
came without aid of human hand, and as it came, 
so will it pass. 

It is Sunday, September 27th, this year of our 
Lord 1903. By that token we know that it is a 
new day, standing apart, and that there never was 
such a day before, nor can it ever be again. Then, 
too, it is the most prescious day of all days, nor 
would we change it for all that has gone before. 
First, because we cannot; and, second, because past 
days are dead things! Pile them all up and they 
would not equal one infinitesimal globule out of 
which to grow a star. 

As for yesterday, it is gone — absolutely, irrevo- 
cably gone. Around it may be the memory of rose 



m^nVB 111? Sfpma 

— Continued 

leaves or the chill of cypress. But the person does 
not live who is able to bring yesterday back again. 
The prophet will never come who can restore a day 
that is dead. 

This, then, is a new day, and is supreme. It came 
in as a child, it will pass out in full stature, lacking 
nothing whatsoever. We could not substitute this 
day, for any future day, for the future is as impal- 
pably untouchable as the past. Before us swims the 
morrow in colorings beyond the brush of painter ; no 
one that has ever lived has been able to touch it. It 
cannot be done, much less can we harness it up or 
bring it down before its time. As w^ell harness our 
dreams and plough the heavens as to filsh to-morrow 
from its set time or place. So that no matter how 
one beats one's head, or stretches forth one's hands, 
or lifts up one's voice, to-day is all that we are heir 
to, and not all of this may be ours. 

It is a mighty solemn thing when one thinks 
about it, but it is glorious, if one will so accept it! 
Glorious that we have a day that is our own 
to do with exactly as we please, and that over this 
day we are our own arbiters. 

What's the news? 

Why, everything is new. By the law of motion 
nothing is as it was a day ago. The grass peeps up 
a little higher than yesterday; a new life stirs at 



— Continued 



the roots; a new breath blows over the meadow 
and a new voice is on the wind ! The sea tells a new 
story and the sands that wash to the shore wash to 
the deeps again ; nor is there an atom of our bodies 
not subject to change, so that we, too, are new, 
built over each day. 

Whafs the news? 

Why, the world moves on and on in ceaseless mo- 
tion; and it can truly be said that from the tiniest 
thing to the greatest thing in the universe, every- 
thing is as new to-day as when the morning and 
evening stars sang together for joy. A new sorrow 
came in with the day, but by its side a new hope 
trailed her garments. New sigh, new joy, yoke fel- 
lows side by side, neck to neck. 

Because this is a new day, it is the best day of 
all days! Sometimes we wish that we might have 
been in at the great chorus when the first day dawned, 
or that we might have watched the Bethlehem Star, 
or been at the Manger, or knelt at the Cross, or that 
we might have stood with Abraham in his tent, or 
have walked and talked with angels as did he, but 
no one knows how it might have been with us then. 

The thing that concerns us most is, how shall it 
be with us to-day? 

Notwithstanding that this is a new day, still it 
is going from us, it is more than midway on its jour- 
ney, it is nearing the place where the shadows 



Wjat'fi tilt ^mB 

— Continued 

lengthen. Shall we throw it away vainly wishing for 
past days, or mar it by looking for future days? 
Shall we go constantly reaching out, forward and 
backward for that which cannot be? Is it not suffi- 
ciently royal that this day is our own? Shall we 
not rather open the door of our soul to this fair 
thing, this rare thing, this glorious day which never 
was before, never can be again, and say, come in? 

What's the news? 

Why, to-day decisions are being made that affect 
human life ; decisions that will reach through eternal 
cycles, although what eternity is, no one is able 
to grasp. This only do we know, that to-day some 
germ of thought and hope is being planted around 
the world. 

Oh, fair day! Day when nations are shun- 
ning paths of war! Days when earth, air and 
water are quivering with the hidden things of God! 
Oh, great day, day of the nearness of the unseen, 
of the reaching out of lowly hearts to the highest 
good! Oh, day of God's revealing, day of the old 
sweet song to the new, new tune. Day of the old 
hope in new setting! Day of bringing nearer the 
visions of Him who is the beginning and the end. 

What's the news? 

Oh ! there is splendid news to tell. God lives, and 
reigns, and all is well. That's the news ! That's the 
news ! 



lEJittnrtalH 



**A Snfi? ott ll|0 (^nthrn Wall" 



It was a beautiful mystery, that rose on the gar- 
den wall! The sunlight kissed it, and its leaves 
grew transparent. A dewdrop rested in the heart 
of it and shone like a diamond, and without any 
effort on its part the rose breathed sweetness on 
the morning air. 

Deep down in the earth were rootlets in which 
was the life of the rose. These rootlets were in the 
dark and the damp, quietly, forcefully shaping the 
life of the beauteous thing above them. These root- 
lets sent up their sap and, like brave generals, or- 
dered the branches forth, crowning them with leaves, 
and little birds nestled in the foliage and sang. In 
and out among the leaves droned a bumblebee, and 
butterflies with golden wings flitted everywhere. 

A woman standing before that wonder on the 
garden wall thought deeply of the power that was 
behind it; she thought of the rootlets down in the 
dark of the soil, the amazing intelligence back of 
them and of how that all she could contribute to- 
ward the making of a rose would be, possibly, to 
turn over the soil and add moisture to it; and how 
only forces outside of herself would be able to work 
the wonder. 

Then silently and reverently she thought of the 
mighty mystery surrounding everything; not only 
the mystery, but the intelligence working silently. 



— Continued 

persistently and in order throughout the vast realm 
which we call Nature; and how that possibly Space 
is more material than any other thing, teeming, per- 
haps, with Intelligences that run to and fro, forever 
directing and guarding, making sure that a rose 
shall be a rose, and nothing but a rose. 

She wondered if it might not be true, that rare 
and beautiful creatures might be watching over 
every other activity, forever decreeing that a grain of 
sand should be a grain of sand; that the lily bloom 
always as a lily, and that the lines of kinship in 
whatever creation be distinctly preserved. 

Then the woman reached up and plucked the roise 
from the garden wall and bore it to the bedside of 
a sick child — a child without father or mother, or 
anyone to love it — and the child smiled and kissed 
the rose, saying, "Oh, you sweet thing! You dear 
thing!" The rose seemed to understand, for it ex- 
haled its perfume until th^room was filled with the 
sweetness. 

Then, somehow, there swept before the woman's 
inner vision a picture of beautiful personalities — 
of stately courts — of endless industry and of busy 
workers, guarding that rose from its very rootlets 
to its glorious crowning, watching it all the way, 
ordering the glory of it, the perfume of it, the per- 



— Continued 

fection of it, smiling, maybe, when its little life 
went out in blessing to a lonely child. 

And so the rose on the garden wall preached its 
little sermon. It was a rose — it aimed to be noth- 
ing more. It was sweet, and its sweetness was un- 
selfish. It was beautiful, and its beauty was to 
gladden the hearts of all who saw it; and never in 
all its life or the life of its comrades had it been 
said that the rose wanted to be anything but a rose. 

So it clambered over the garden wall, covering up 
imperfections everywhere. It lifted its head to the 
sun, drank in royal colors, gathered to itself the 
dewdrop, smiled and passed out on a lordly mission 
to a little heart that was sorrowful. 

1910. 



"®iig (niBBtr 



But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, 
and lohen thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy 
Father which is in secret, and thy Father which 
seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. 

Following that remarkable Sermon on the Mount, 
Jesus taught the people how to pray, and what to 
pray for. It is noteworthy that first He taught 
them how to live. They were to follow peace and 
mercy. They were to be patient under trials — en- 
dure poverty with meekness and recognize the bles- 
sings of sorrow. When they were reviled they were 
to answer softly, and be glad when persecuted for 
His sake. Being able to do this they might safely 
enter into the closet with God. 

Now there are various ways of praying ! One may 
pray as one works — may stand on the corner of the 
street and pray, or pray in the public assembly — 
may kneel in one's room — may pray aloud or in a 
whisper, or without visible sign — but the prayer that 
does things must be sincere — must admit of neither 
doubt nor fear. x\ll else is fantastic — a waste of 
time and energy. Better not pray at all than to 
do that. 

In one of the most remarkable prayers of which 
we have record, Jesus talked with His Father about 
the journey He was to take. Not once did He speak 



— Continued 

of death, but always as "going away" — and in that 
prayer is the following declaration: 

"And this is life eternal — that they might know 
Thee, the only true God!" He was trying to make 
His disciples see that death was incidental to Being 
— and that life eternal must come through knowing 
God — the true God, and then in another chapter He 
tells where close acquaintance with God can be had. 

Now, if one is weary with self, with ambition and 
the lust of gold and pride, if one really hungers 
after peace and quiet, the directions are very plain 
and simple, so that who ever wills to find these 
things may find them. 

The first step is to enter "into thy closet." This 
would indicate that every soul has its own closet — 
its own secret place — its "Holy of Holies!" Of 
course He did not mean a real room, built out of 
brick and mortar — a little room with a panel swing- 
ing upon iron hings! No, He did not mean that — 
but He meant, thy closet — the inner place of the 
soul — across whose floor no unbidden foot may 
sound. 

The question may arise as to whether, having told 
us to enter the closet, He has left us blind as to 
the way? 



"®IjH maaet" 

— Continued 

Are there marks that lead me to Him 

If He be my guide? 
In His feet and hands are nail prints, 

And His side. 
If I follow, if I falter, 

Will He say me nay? 
Not till earth and not till heaven 

Pass away! 

So, then, the path to this closet leads by the way 
of nail prints — down, down through the valley of 
surrender and where are the flowers of forgiveness, 
heavy with the dew of loving deeds and beyond 
this valley, the portals of silence, through which 
one must pass ere the secret place be reached. 

Having forgiven all, then one may begin to forget 
material things. Dim and far away sound the 
noises of the world; farther and farther away they 
drift; one no longer distinguishes the street car 
rattle; languorous odors seem to creep up from the 
valley — a new delight seizes the soul, silent tears 
begin to flow. Oh! Joy! Joy! 

Rash indeed must be the one daring this thing 
without being willing, yea, anxious, to behold in 
the closet the reflected image of Him who is all in 
all. But, having once entered in, oh, then, one longs 
to go again and again, and then comes the desire 
to shut the door. 



— Continued 

At such moments men are marvelously healed of 
long and lingering sickness. At such moments lines 
are changed, and those who were blind begin to see, 
and lasting reforms are wrought. 

^'Enter thy closet!" This is the command! But 
unmistakably must one leave one's shoes outside 
the door. 

The more one reads the direction to "thy closet" 
the plainer does it appear that whether one gets 
there or not is entirely dependent upon one's self. 
"Into thy closet" no soul is carried by force! But 
who would go must himself enter. No use to at- 
tempt to enter while wearing the yoke of hate, or 
selfish pride. No use to attempt it while clogged 
with deceit, and the love of power! No use to try 
to enter if thou rememberest that thy neighbor hath 
aught against thee. Remembering this, pause; lay 
down thy gift — be at peace with thy neighbor. That 
may or may not mean a personal interview, but it 
will mean that so far as one is able one has done 
everything to be at peace. Having done all, then 
boldly enter thy closet, begin to hush the world's 
clamor, listen until no longer the pulses seem to 
beat, or the temples throb, and then shut the door, 
"thy door." 

The next thing about this closet interview is that 
it will be secret. Oh, how wonderful ! He who 



— Continued 

would sit and talk with God must go in secret. God 
would have that soul wholly, absolutely. Nor will 
God appear until the door be shut. 

If some one of the many thousands who read this 
little sermon were to receive a written invitation to 
a private interview with President Koosevelt he 
would feel greatly honored; and no sooner would it 
be known than public inquiry would be a tiptoe to 
know what it meant. 

But here is an invitation from one before whom 
principalities and powers are but as the dust on 
the sea shore; and this invitation is to a closet in- 
interview — a private interview with the Alpha and 
the Omega. 

Come now, let us to our closet — you to yours and 
I to mine, ere yet these Sabbath bells shall cease to 
ring, or the grace of this day be over. 

MARION B. BAXTER. 



3(n i§fl«0r nf Matiftt 



Once upon a time — very far away it seems — there 
lived in the little village of Jonesville — Samantha 
Allen's Jonesville — a woman by the name of Mary 
Babcock. This woman knew little of social func- 
tions and cared less. She sewed and baked, looked 
well after the affairs of her little home, doing odd 
jobs with her needle for those who admired her 
work. Her hands were beautiful, soft and shapely. 
Their touch was tenderness itself; they soothed the 
sick of the village and closed the eyes of the dying. 
They were wonderful hands — hands for the sculptor 
to fashion from; beloved hands; hands remembered 
and longed for by the writer as the most beautiful 
in all the world. They were the hands of my mother. 

In those "airly" days the best room had a rag 
carpet on the floor, and the pretty things that the 
girl Marion wore at the village functions were 
earned by this precious woman, who burned the mid- 
night oil as she stitched and stitched. 

Mary descended from good old Dutch stock. She 
believed that a good name was to be prized above 
rubies, and that it was neither wise nor honest to 
eat or wear what one could not afford. She was 
sturdy, fearless and gentle. She was never known 
to resent a personal unkindness, but she had learned 
how to endure. To her came the wise for counsel 
and the sad ones for comfort ; and against her faith- 
ful heart the writer sobbed all her troubles, real and 



3(tt ^xinat of Mixtion 

— Continued 

unreal, learning from her the priceless value of 
character. 

Twenty-eight years ago, when the February snows 
piled deep, came a messenger to that little home — 
and Mary fell asleep, after days of wrestling, heart- 
breaking to remember. 

Sitting by her side that fateful day, her only child 
asked this question: "Mother, what can I do with- 
out you?"^ — to which she answered: "I don't know, 
my child; I've been thinking about it." And then 
she passed on, fearless as she had lived, loved by 
all the villagers, mourned by many of them to this 
day. 

Sometimes I see across the years those beautiful 
hands; and once I cried out, "Oh, mother, can't you 
help me!" And — well, something like her dear 
fingers felt for the pain in my head, and I slept. 

Day and night have I kept her memory fresh; 
and now, before this vast army of readers, some of 
whom feel a kindly interest in me, I declare that 
not for a world would I disappoint her or be other 
than the woman she would have me be. 

This is Mother's Day — a day dedicated in many 
cities to the name and glory of motherhood. On this 
day we are urged to tell our friends about the best 
mother in the world, our mother — and that is why 



3ltt l^vintiv 0f Matbtr 

— Continued 

this article is being written, that all may know with 
what riches life blessed me in her love, and to whom 
I am indebted for whatsoever is best in me. 

This editorial is being read by thousands of men 
and women who love and honor their mothers. 
Those mothers may still be with them, or they may 
have passed beyond the veil. But whether absent 
or present, their names kindle emotions unlike any 
other — emotions that are a mingling of hope, trust, 
memory, compounded in the secret places of the 
soul, where are the fonts of strength. 

Thousands are reading upon whom the world has 
been unutterably hard. Some have been sinned 
against more than sinning. To them the world has 
been both lash and driver. Neither position nor 
glory nor fame has brought them peace. They are 
weary, starving for a friend, hungry with unspeak- 
able hunger for mother. This is the name that 
steadies them when temptation rolls in like a flood ; 
it is the name they can speak fearlessly in the dark 
or the day ; it is the name that gives them courage to 
struggle and the name that makes life tolerable 
when conscience burns and burns — for, next to God, 
mother understands! 

From countless platforms today songs will be 
sung and orations spoken in memory of the sacred 
name. Great organs will open wide their throats 



3(n ^mViX of Motiftr 

— Continued 

in praise of mother, and silent tears will be shed by 
sincere mourners. Someone who reads is a stranger 
in a strange land — a wanderer, maybe, from the 
path of purity and peace — and, as this stranger 
reads, a new resolve will awake; the resolve to get 
back to mother, or at least to get close to mother's 
God ; and it is past all doubt that from hearts grown 
suddenly weak with the mother-hunger there rises 
the pitiful and impossible plea — 

"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight! 
Make me a child again, just for tonight. 
Mother, come back from the Echoless Shore, 
Take me again to your heart, as of yore !" 

Mother's Day bids fair to move up to the calendar 
of national and world-wide observance. The theme 
is tender and inspiring, and the white flower worn 
on the heart of mother-lovers makes us all friends. 
Therefore, pause, O Prince and Princess of this 
most royal estate, that I, a fellow lover, may salute 
thee ! 

MARION B. BAXTER. 



Utrlorg! Utrtnrg! 



"No one, I say, is conquered till he yields." 

So sings an unknown writer in a poem entitled 
"King Hassan's Proverbs." The poet relates how 
"King Hassan, the well beloved," had a cheerful way 
of saying when things went wrong. 

"To-morrow, friends, will be another day." 

In that thought he sought his couch each night 
and slept, knowing that after the weary brain had 
been rested by refreshing sleep it would be better 
fitted to grapple with daily problems — better fitted 
to gather up the tangled web of yesterday and bind 
the fretted edges into something like strength for 
future action. And then he uttered the '"proverb" 
that will bear repeating not once — but many times 
— "No one I say is conquered, till he yields." 

There's a world of good sound logic in the proverb. 
It bristles all over with exhortation to valiant war- 
fare. Its tone is martial and sort of quickens the 
blood. There is in it bugle blast and reveille and 
a hint that somewhere is the solemn bell of defeat 
whose brazen tongue can never sound until the hand 
of the defeated one pulls the rope. 

The best thing about the proverb is its truthful- 
ness, as every reader who has profited by experience 
will testify. In a grim way the most of us have felt 
the gist of the proverb grind into our souls, and if 



Utrtnrij! Hirtorg! 

— Continued 

it were possible to write a book in which the actual 
struggles of men and women were accurately re- 
corded, there would be nothing in literature to sur- 
pass it. We speak reverently of the struggle of Him, 
who for forty days in the wilderness, wrestled 
against the Powers of Darkness. Great and glorious 
was the ending of that struggle. On the triumph- 
ant ending of it, hung the hope of the world. Nor 
can we possibly grasp the meaning of the ^'hope of 
the world" — unless we are gifted to grasp the mean- 
ing of a world wherein there is no such thing as 
hope. 

It was Jesus himself who said: "Greater things 
than ye see me do shall ye do." Who shall say that 
the "greater things" may not apply to victories won 
over self? 

If we say that the "greater things" apply to every 
day struggles of men and women now — then — may 
it not be true — that more than we can possibly 
dream of hangs on the termination of them? 

If it be true and it seems probable — that invisible 
hosts watch the progress of earthly welfare then 
how it must gladden them when the fight goes brave- 
ly on. With what pleasure they must watch the un- 
daunted soul that gathers itself up from seeming 
defeat to try again. 



— Continued 

Whether it be true or not that invisible hosts 
attend our footsteps, this much is true : The visible 
hosts, those with whom we live, know all about us — 
and it goes without argument that a brave fight for 
the right as one sees it — a dogged determination to 
win, or go down in trying — inspires confidence in 
others — not only to try, but if possible to aim a 
little higher, and move with a little more caution. 

If it be true that "no one is conquered until he 
yields" then hunger nor cold are more than inci- 
dents — hard of course to bear — but mere incidents 
nonetheless. 

Against this unconquerable spirit guns are as 
childish as paper wads fired at the moon. Before 
this unpurchasable devotion to honor temptation 
hides its head. Neither heat of summer — nor cold 
of winter — now the flush of plenty — nor the pang 
of hunger, can prevail against it. Dying with it one 
is more than victor. Dying without it one is more 
than conquered. 



1905. 



lExtrarlB 



This side of Heaven nothing is sweeter, more per- 
sistent, more all-conquering than Mother Love, and 
to have missed it is to have missed one of the great- 
est joys of life than can ever come to a woman. 



As a bird flutters its wings at the first gray dawn, 
and then breaks into song; as the gray blushes to 
crimson in the East, so my soul rises exultant from 
the shadow it sits, and stands triumphant on the 
mountain top, under the assurance ''that as far as 
the East is from the West, so far has He removed 
our transgressions from us." 



Perhaps the Pessimist serves his day, but we 
know that the "Optimist is the real saving salt — 
and no one knows how society would get on if he 
did not persistently stand forth to declare — no mat- 
ter how dark the way — it is better — farther on." 



There never was a time when one, desirous of 
doing good, might find so wide a field. As for op- 
portunities, they are as the sands upon the seashore. 
The rich may give gold — the poor may give labor — 
and each may give according to what he hath; the 
only thing being, to begin, and to begin just the 
moment the desire to be useful takes hold of the 
soul. 



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